Eye Bleach
Paul E. Creasy
Copyright © 2018 Paul E. Creasy
All rights reserved.
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“Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.” - 1 Peter 5:8
For S.O.L.O.M.L.
Table of Contents
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
About the Author
Preface
Sometimes the strangest seeds find a home in the most exotic soil and yield the most unexpected crops. Such is the case of this book, Eye Bleach.
In the summer of 2017, I read a fascinating article in the Atlantic Monthly about the daily life of Content Moderators at YouTube. The psychological toll inflicted on those who must sort through the daily barrage of uploaded filth, just to make the internet palatable to civilized society, is simply incredible. I had no idea. I thought, incorrectly it turns out, algorithms handled these things. They don’t. Thousands of people are employed, to view unimaginable depravity, at no small cost to their psyche, just so we can be entertained by cat videos and other such diversions. We owe them all a great debt.
Another seed of inspiration for this story, completely unrelated to the trials of Content Moderators on the internet, comes from my late Uncle Ralph. He was a hilarious man, and, a Great Uncle, both literally (he was my Grandmother’s baby brother) and figuratively (he was pretty great). Growing up, I spent every summer with he and his wife, my Aunt Gladys, in their Washington DC apartment. I have many fond memories of those times. Uncle Ralph and Aunt Gladys never had any children, so, I think I was sort of a surrogate grandchild to them. We all had a blast!
Uncle Ralph was a member of the ‘Greatest’ generation. Sadly, their kind is almost extinct now, and that generation’s final passing will make our nation weaker. Like many of his generation, he was not particularly a ‘man of his feelings’. Leo Buscaglia had not yet donned his trademark sweater and started hugging everyone. I, as a small boy, with an intense interest in history, of course asked him about his military service in World War II.
I knew from my Grandmother, Uncle Ralph fought in the ‘Battle of the Bulge’, so I was pretty relentless in trying to pry any information from him any chance I could get. It was not a subject he wished to discuss. As an aside, he once told me there are two types of veterans — those who never talk about the war and those who won’t ever shut up about it. My Great Uncle was firmly in the first camp.
Uncle Ralph did talk about his army service in generalities, though, but every story he told was a funny one. He told tales of getting lost in France, losing his jeep and having to sleep in a barn. He told lots of stories about various poker games he won as well as his first taste of TRUE vermouth when he passed through Amiens. This led to him becoming a lifelong fan of the apertif. I have never known anyone with such a violent passion about the sublties of a cocktail mixer as him. As my wife can attest, this trait was passed on to me.
But he never told any combat stories. Those were the ones I really wanted to hear. No doubt, the stories of his time in France and Germany, which grew more ribald as I grew older, were all great, but I wanted some real G.I. Joe material. I wanted machine guns and Tiger tanks. I wanted flame throwers and live grenades tossed back into enemy lines. I wanted to hear about him bayonetting some crazed Nazi charging his trench. Whenever I would try and pry out some John Waynesque tale from him, he always just looked bemused and then would tell another joke.
Finally, after years of relentless, but subtle, badgering, I asked Uncle Ralph flat out what it was like during the Battle of the Bulge — no hedging or jokes, just the straight facts. I remember the afternoon vividly. I was seventeen years old. We were sitting in Poor Roberts bar in the Cleveland Park district of DC, a favorite hangout of his. He sighed, put down his scotch (a rare event) and looked me cold in the eye. He said it was so horrific, so terrible and awful, he had chosen to forget about it. He said his rational mind knew he was terrified during the battle, but, beg though I may, he had no more details to provide. He had scrubbed them all from his mind. When I asked him how he could purposefully forget such a traumatic event, he shrugged, picked up his drink, took a long sip and said, “Sometimes, you gotta do what you gotta do”. He then winked and proceeded to tell me about the time he received some R&R in Paris for a whole weekend, and his buddy gave him fifty cartons of stolen Winstons from the commisary. That tale, X-rated in the extreme, could be the inspiration for an entire library of books!
Years later, and now sadly, several decades after his passing, I have often wondered two things. One, just how is someone capable of willing such a bad memory away? How is it possible? Obviously, the brain can be controlled, and as any trip to your local bookstore will show you, oceans of ink have been spilled detailing strategies for programming your own mind for success. Many books by Tony Robbins come to mind here. But, no doubt, those dark memories still lurk in the subconscious somewhere. For my Uncle Ralph, I am sure the effect of his suppression manifested itself elsewhere. After all, who considers beer a breakfast drink, and has the ironclad rule that all your beverages should darken as the sun goes down? Vodka at noon, brandy at three, scotch at five and, of course, bourbon at nine, right? Doesn’t everyone’s family have such a tradition?
The second thing I have always wondered is this: just what exactly happened to my Uncle Ralph during the war that was so horrible, so terrible, so soul-crushingly awful it would enforce a code of silence on him for fifty years and require a sea of booze to drown? I really would have liked to have known. Now that he has passed, I guess I will just have to wait and ask him when we meet again in the next world.
I hope you enjoy reading this novel as much as I did writing it. It is a strange tale and takes quite a few unexpected and dark twists; but I think you will find the journey interesting and worthwhile.
Chapter 1
April 13, 2017 - UVid corporate headquarters - Mountain View, California. - 10:30 AM
“Snickerdoodle?” Phil Bartlett asked as he cocked his head to the side. He was persistent at least, and especially pleading this time.
“No thanks, really,” Sylvia Marstens answered as she gently shook her head. This little game had gone on for a while now. In fact, this Turret-syndrome-like request kept popping out of Phil’s mouth at various points throughout the whole job
interview which was fast approaching two hours now. It was still cute, in a boyish charm sort of way, but it still seemed a bit too much “on the spectrum” for her taste. Computer people, she thought, always the same story. Luckily, she was being interviewed by Phil and not the other way around. Interviewers can afford to be odd. Interviewees always must be on their best behavior.
This allusion to an endless “on-demand” candy benefit was intriguing, though, and just one of the myriad of fantastic perks in her potential new career. Several times during her interview she heard dogs barking from down the hall, an oddity to be sure. Knowing that UVid allows its employees to bring their pets to their office caused her to wonder how Snowy, her white Pomeranian, might react to joining Mommy at work. Knowing her dog’s tendency for intense vocalization (e.g., barking), it might be on her shoulders that this policy gets scrapped. But…, perhaps not. Silicon Valley really is different than the rest of the world. And it is especially different from her very familiar East Coast world of Academia. No shower of Zagnuts or avalanche of M&Ms offered there; only burnt coffee and stale donuts on Fridays in the faculty lounge. Would her recently toned and slimmed thighs survive the allure of an endless cornucopia of chocolate on demand? She doubted they would, but, at least she would be able to work off any new layer of flubber in the world-class gym, complete with several paid full-time yoga instructors, UVid provided their staff. And they even had excellent dental coverage — amazing.
“I know,” Phil said. “Clark Bar! That must be the ticket. You look like a Clark Bar kind of gal.”
Sylvia smiled and shook her head. “I really am quite full from breakfast. The hotel you arranged for me has been just fabulous. They put out quite the buffet this morning. I can’t remember ever seeing so many croissants.”
“Rosewood Sand Hill is fantastic, isn’t it?” Phil said as he smiled and leaned back in his chair. “We have our annual Christmas party there every year, and I have always loved the place. It is top shelf all the way. On a clear day, if you are standing at the ninth hole, and stretch your neck a bit, you can just catch sight of San Francisco Bay off in the distance. Beautiful.”
“It is all so glorious,” Sylvia said. “As is this whole UVid campus. I have been most impressed with the facilities. As a hopeless fan-girl of modern architecture, I have been blown away by this place.” She smiled as she added, “It definitely has that Logan’s Run look about it, but in a good way, not a bad one.”
“Logan’s Run?” Phil asked.
“Ah…,” Sylvia said. “I guess that reference is a bit before your time, isn’t it?” She knew it was almost as soon as she said it. What was Phil, 25, 26 at the most? And at such a young age he was already a major executive in a multi-billion-dollar tech company. Things certainly were different in her day. The long slog up the corporate ladder of her generation was over. Another big deposit on the dustbin of history. The future, it appears, belongs to the tech-savvy young.
Her eyes again scanned Phil’s office, drinking in all the crystal-clear glass and shiny chrome everywhere. It was pristine — almost to the point of sterility, but still achingly pleasant. It was almost like she had accidentally wandered into some BBC documentary about the world of the distant future. A world she was completely unfamiliar with yet held much intrigue. Where else but in this techno-paradise could some T-shirted, high-top red tennis shoes and jean-clad twenty-something run an HR department for a company employing tens of thousands? Brave new world indeed.
“Wait a minute, Logan’s Run,” Phil said as he scratched his soul-patched chin. “Was that the old TV show where all of the inhabitants are sent to ‘sanctuary’ on their thirtieth birthday?”
“That’s the one,” Sylvia said.
“When the crystals in their palm started flashing, right?”
“Yes.”
“I remember my Mom saying she used to watch that show when she was in grade school. She said it scared the crap out of her as a kid.”
“Thanks, Phil,” Sylvia said with a laugh. “Now I feel even older than I did. That was my favorite show — in Junior High School!”
“Oops!” Phil said with a laugh.
Sylvia chuckled. “Don’t worry, though. My crystals flashed out a long, long time ago.”
“Well…,” Phil said as he cleared his throat, his tone suddenly becoming more serious. “Getting back on topic, I hope you are considering our offer.”
Sylvia glanced down at the folder in front of her on Phil’s desk. It was her proposed salary package and contract. It was a doozy. Two hundred thousand per year, travel expenses, company car, housing allowance — it was a dream. And even stranger, it was an unsolicited dream. There had to be a catch.
“I am quite interested, Phil,” Sylvia said. “But…,”
“But?” Phil said. “Look, if we need to tweak the salary a bit, I can see what we can do. To be honest with you, though, we may be maxing out the budget, but it’s possible we could make some adjustments. Give me some time.”
“No, it’s not that,” Sylvia said. “Although, more money is always better,” she added with a wink. “It is, well…, I really don’t know anything about what you want me to do here? I certainly am impressed with the company, and the money and benefit package are quite nice.”
“And the weather, Sylvia, don’t forget that,” Phil said. “You don’t even have to pay taxes for this benefit.”
He pointed out his large picture window to the beautiful spring morning bursting into life outside his office. It looked like an orange juice commercial — clear blue sky, the ocean just on the horizon, fruit trees dotting the immaculately manicured grounds, a gentle breeze swaying the palms. Pure loveliness on an exponential scale. At any minute it seemed as if the Beach Boys might start singing California Dreaming…, on a winter’s day. On a winter’s day….
Sylvia laughed. “Well…, I can’t say I would miss New York winters.”
“Good God, no,” Phil said. “I remember them well. They suck.”
“But how exactly did my name come to your attention?” Sylvia asked. “I mean, I am never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but…”
Phil smiled and paused before saying. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
Sylvia confessed, “I—, I am sorry, but…, uh, should I?”
“It’s not surprising, actually,” Phil said. “I was one of about two hundred in your Psych 101 class back in 2007.”
“You were a student of mine?”
“Yep! Class of 2011, computer science major.”
Sylvia swept her hand out into his office and said, “Good choice, apparently.”
“It was. But…, of all my non-IT classes, I really enjoyed yours the most. It was incredibly insightful.”
“Well, I am quite honored,” Sylvia said. She laughed and added, “And if I had known I had a future internet mogul in my midst, I would have paid more attention when I taught that class. Frankly, most of those mongo intro classes, with the mob of freshmen in attendance, I just phone in.”
Phil laughed, and said, “And who could blame you? We were all a snotty, motley bunch I am sure. But…, I liked your teaching style, and, most of all, I really enjoyed your book. Fascinating. In fact, I have read all your books. They are cutting edge.”
“Thank you,” Sylvia said. “I am glad you like them. Unfortunately, you are in the minority. My department head, as well as the rest of the psych department, are not big fans of my writing.”
“No, I would not think they would be,” Phil said.
“Yeah, people tend to get a bit defensive when you start poking holes in their idols, like Sigmund Freud.”
Phil laughed. “Yes, and that is why I knew you were the perfect person for this job. UVid is a revolutionary company, and we love rebels. Your first book, Reprogram your mind, Reprogram your life, was really mind-blowing. You had me at the chapter entitled Freud - 100 Years of Fraud and Counting. Hilarious and dead on accurate. Your book threw the whole field of psychology on its head. I am
sure you have helped so many people and deserve more credit than you get.”
Sylvia beamed. This was unexpected but very welcome. “Thank you. I put a lot of research into that book. Sadly, research still sorely needed.”
“And the theories you espouse fit in perfectly with not only my own thinking but also, the rest of the management team here at UVid. Your analogy of the human mind as being as programmable as a computer, with algorithms and subroutines and code. Genius! Why, if I didn’t know any better, I would have sworn you were a coder.”
“Too much math,” Sylvia said with a grin.
“And having the power to scrub the negative experiences of life from your memory and then rewire positive ones instead is fantastic. What a beacon of hope this must be to those suffering from traumatic memories.”
“Yes. In the few private counseling patients I had, my methods worked wonders. I was very encouraged. But…, alas, the Human Subjects Committee at the university objected. I was forced to give it up, and without a grant, I was out of the research business. So, it was back to teaching.”
“But you see, Sylvia, this is why this new position is the perfect fit for you,” Phil said. “You apparently enjoyed helping people. Well…, you will be doing that full-time now.”
Sylvia paused and inhaled deeply. It was tempting. No more threats of denied tenure. No more derisive comments from her colleagues. The ability to put her theories into full practice. It was very tantalizing.
“You are making a compelling case, Phil,” Sylvia said. “But…, let me be straight with you here. I certainly do not want to mess up such an outstanding offer, but, I have to be honest. Above all, I am a woman of integrity.”
“Of course.”
“And since you read my books you must know that my treatment was for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, nothing else. Now…, no offense intended, and I know that programming work is stressful, but I don’t think it necessarily rises to a PTSD level.”
Phil threw back his head and laughed. “No offense taken. And you are entirely correct, of course. Let me assure you, most of the stress our programmers deal with around here can usually be solved with ample application of Red Bull and Pizza. Plus, I don’t think to have your character die on the latest Halo 5 Mod counts as warranting treatment for PTSD.” He winked as he added, “thrilling and as lifelike as those graphics are.”
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